


Cor Cordium

by havisham



Category: 19th Century CE British Writer RPF, 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Banter, Break Up, Canonical Character Death, Drama & Romance, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Mad Bad Dangerous to Know, Misses Clause Challenge, Multi, Parenthood, Threesome - F/M/M, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-01-30 22:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Mary Shelley is the final girl.
Relationships: Lord Byron/Mary Shelley/Percy Shelley, Mary Shelley/Percy Shelley
Comments: 32
Kudos: 60
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Cor Cordium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [billspilledquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/gifts).

> Hello, BillSpilledQuill! I saw your prompt literally a week after having a discussion about how Mary Shelley, Percy Shelley and Lord Byron's lives intersected (on Halloween, no less) and felt really moved to write this story. I sincerely hope you like it! Thank you, have a wonderful holiday!
> 
> Big thanks to my beta Oshun!

**Lake Geneva, 1816**

Lord Byron lifted up the candle, making wicked shadows play across his handsome face. “Why don’t each of us write a ghost story?” 

Mary felt a delicious thrill of fear run through her as she reached for Percy’s hand in the dark. It was cold, but living, and clutched at her. His eyes were fixed on Byron’s face, but that was to be expected. They were all looking at him as if they expected him to perform a magic trick. 

“Write a story? Not tell one now?” Percy asked him, “Though all of us are gathered here, rapt in this ghostly atmosphere?” 

“Are we all not writers here?” Byron answered him. “You, I and --?” 

“Mary has been writing up our travels in the hopes of collecting it into a volume that can be sold,” Percy said, giving her an encouraging smile. “Even in the most miserable place, like Echemine, I have seen her industriously writing away, while I was uselessly pained with a sore foot.” 

“I hope it will not be like the typical Englishman’s travelogue, which disdains all other Englishmen only less than any other race, and is only worth reading to decipher what names have been censored out. You will not put me in this book, will you, Mrs. Shelley?” 

“Certainly not if you do not desire it,” Mary said. She blushed hot at his particular insistence of using the nomenclature of _Mrs. Shelley_, especially with the knowing look he gave her. Whatever Percy said, everyone here_ knew _that she was still Mary Godwin. “Besides, how should I censor your name without making it immediately apparent who you are, sir?” 

“Perhaps G --” said Percy, ever helpful. “For people will be scanning the pages for B --, certainly.” 

“No, no, use A -- B --- for Abysmal Bore,” said Byron. “I would not take offense. I never take offense at true statements from beautiful women.” 

“... Speaking of abysmal, it is abysmally cold in here,” Claire said, pulling her shawl tighter over her shoulder. “I will abstain, if you please, from your ghost-story writing. I will not chill myself further upon thinking of the dead.” 

“You are a -- _ha_ \-- very sensible young woman,” said Doctor Polidori said with a sudden snort. He had been quiet the whole time. Mary had supposed him asleep, but apparently not. Claire nudged Mary quickly, and they giggled together, before the moment and its absurdity passed. 

That night, Mary lay awake with Percy sleeping beside her and Willmouse, their little son, snuggled in between them. She felt restless and strange, and she could not put the blame on a foreign bed, for that had become quite a commonplace occurrence now. Home was not a place, but rather the people who came with you … 

As her eyelids grew heavy with sleep, Mary was plagued by strange and broken dreams of a student of unhallowed arts, bringing forth a creature of unnatural and awesome parentage… 

… She woke to small hands, patting her face. Willmouse looked at her earnestly, hunger clearly in his eyes. 

“All right, all right,” Mary said to herself, taking Willmouse up in her arms and cuddling him. Despite the clean morning air and giggling of a baby, she could not clear her mind of such dark thoughts that lurked there. 

She longed for a pen, some ink, and some paper… 

**Venice, 1818 **

It was agreed between Mary and Percy that they should take young Alba to her father, and leave Claire with the children and their nurse Emilia. Claire did not like this plan and said so plainly, but Byron’s letter had been uncharacteristically clear on the matter: he would not accept the child if he was required to encounter her mother. Therefore, the Shelleys would have to do the deed. 

“It is for Alba’s future we do this, Claire,” Mary told her sobbing stepsister, while Percy waited at the door with the sleeping child. It was evening time -- they had promised to dine with Byron, as well as to introduce him to his infant daughter. Claire, who was usually helpful in getting Mary ready for the evenings, had been overcome with grief as the day wore on.

Finally, Mary said, “You wanted him to take her in -- you said yourself that he could provide for her in ways that we cannot.” 

“But he will never let me see her again!” Claire said. Her tears had puffed up the skin around her eyes. “It is monstrous!” 

“_I know it is_,” Mary said. “One cannot deny it! When I think that I can never see my little girl again, I --” 

“Mary!” Percy said sharply. “Foggi says that if we do not go now, we will miss our appointment with Byron.” 

“Claire,” Mary said. “I will speak to you when we return.” On impulse, she leaned in to kiss her sister’s damp forehead. “Take care, dearheart.” 

She took the bag of Alba’s things and stepped out the door, where Percy was waiting for her. _You indulge her_, he clearly wanted to say, but his fair mindedness stopped him. Claire was not their enemy here, she had never been so.

It was a precarious business, loading a sleeping child and a large bag, as well as two adults and a gondolier into a gondola, but nonetheless, they did it. The old palace Byron was staying in was far from their own modest lodgings, but as always, they preferred to travel by water.

In Venice, at least, that was by necessity. 

The little girl was waking up from her slumber and looking with lively interest at everything that was happening around her. Mary smiled at her brightness— Alba was a dear child.

“Percy,” Mary said, her smile fading, “this whole scheme is -- it is distasteful to me. We are not in the habit of selling children.” 

Percy looked offended. “I should hope not, for Byron is not offering me a penny for her.” 

“He will not ever let Claire see her again. For all the high-minded things he says when he converses with you, he still treats the mother of his child as a fallen woman.” 

“Well. Not all men are as enlightened beings as your --” 

“Husband?” 

“I was going to say father,” Percy said, smiling. 

“Lucky me, so spoiled for choice,” Mary said, looking out at the water. She thought that the common observance that the light itself was different in Venice, was true, but she did not think all the rest of it was worth it. There was a persistent gloom about the city that filled her with unease. She prayed that no one in their party would grow ill here. The rising damp certainly could not be good for the lungs. 

“Mary!” Percy said, “from your look, I think you are worried about falling into the water whilst in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Could that be true?”

“Doesn’t everyone worry over it, so close to it?” Mary murmured. 

“Many fear, but none do it, signora,” the gondolier assured her. 

“There! You see? It is vanishingly unlikely,” Percy said and got up abruptly and moved toward her, rocking the gondola alarmingly. Mary clutched Alba to her breast and looked at Percy with freezing eyes, but he gave her a serene smile as he sat down next to her. 

“My dear,” he said in an intimate whisper. “Just now, with the evening sun on your hair, you looked just like one of those beautiful Madonnas we all must pretend not to admire. You are so lovely.” He put his hand lightly on her thigh for a moment, before moving it away. Mary flushed a little. 

“Percy, not now,” Mary whispered back to him. “Truly, I do not know why my sadness is always so attractive to you!” 

“I think it is because -- when I first saw you in your father’s house, you were so cast down and so pretty -- and so fierce and intelligent, but I learned that only later! -- That first moment when I saw you, I thought -- ‘Look at that sad and lovely girl. I wish I could make her happy.’” 

Mary laughed and said softly in his ear, “It was not, ‘I wish I was not married?’” 

“_Mary!_ You are a wicked woman.” 

“And you are a wicked man. I was barely sixteen then.” 

“ Signore e signora,” the gondolier said, “We are here.”

*

The hotel Lord Byron was staying in was an old palace of some kind, full of dark shadows and a twisted and strange facade, the result of some fanciful Mannerist architect long since gone to dust. Now, it was generally unsuited to the presence of both married women and children. And the man himself was not present to receive them when they arrived, being still in bed.

“It is nearing seven o’clock,” Percy said to Byron’s harried looking, newly hired valet. “I can understand keeping to Latinate hours, but we have a child with us and lodgings to return to.”

“I do understand, sir, but I haven’t been able to do anything about it. Perhaps if you would come with me, we could rouse him together.”

“Is he ill? Shelley, if he is ill, we cannot leave Alba in his care. Especially if he has no nursemaid prepared for her,” said Mary. 

“He is not ill in that way,” said the valet delicately. “Madame Shelley, I can show you to the parlor where you and the child can wait until the gentleman are ready?”

“He’s hungover,” Percy said abruptly. “That’s all. It won’t be long, Mary. Have patience.”

“It isn’t my patience I worry for,” Mary said, allowing herself to be conducted to a suffocating little room with a little coal brazier, which provided the only warmth and light. Outside, there were sounds of wild merriment and laughter. Mary sighed and opened the bag of Alba’s things, taking out a doll that had been made for her and gave it over to her. 

The little girl was not much interested in the doll, but Mary was satisfied that she was occupied enough that Mary herself could take out her commonplace book and take some notes on the day. 

Outside, the noise grew louder and more intense. Mary sighed and wished intensely for silence. 

“Auntie Mary, where is Mama?” asked Alba quietly.

“Mama is at our lodgings with Cousin Willmouse and the baby. We are here to meet your father, Alba. He is eager to make your acquaintance, isn’t that nice?”

“I want Mama,” Alba said, her little jaw set.

Mary nodded. “I understand that, dearheart. You will see her soon.”

“You’re lying.” Alba’s childish voice was flat and quiet and Mary pulled back for a moment. She felt as though a chill hand had pressed itself against the back of her neck. But Alba had gone back to playing with her doll, their conversation apparently forgotten.

The door to the parlor opened. “Mary Shelley! You are lovely as ever, I see.”

“In this poor light? I’m surprised that you can see anything at all, Lord Byron,” said Mary, standing up and smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress. Whenever Byron came into a room, he always took all of the air out of it. 

He looked a little worse for wear, having imperfectly shaved and dressed hastily. He had thrown an arm around Percy, a gesture of intimacy that Mary knew her husband would not allow from many other people.

“Do not doubt my vision, I beg you. Is that her — Allegra?”

“You mean Alba?”

“I’ve renamed her,” Byron said, as if it was obvious. “She looks like me, do you not think?” 

“She has dark hair and dark eyes. As does Claire.” 

“_Mary_.” This was Percy. He seemed wary of her tone, as if she was in danger of upsetting Byron enough that he would rescind his offer and they would be in the same position as before. But what of it? Mary could not see why that was more terrible than leaving Alba with her disaster of a father. 

“Do you have someone who can take care of her? This place is -- it’s not for a child, is it?” 

Byron blinked at her, as if he was seeing a double vision. “It isn’t like I’m planning to raise her myself. I have no desire to do so, nor any experience in the matter. I will find good, competent people who do so, and give her over to them. She will need for nothing.” 

“Except for her mother,” Mary said. 

“But Claire agreed to give her to me, and the agreement was between the two of us. You, Mrs. Shelley, have no say in the matter.” 

“I know that,” Mary said. “I know it is pointless to argue, but I feel that I must --”

“Damn, grab her, George,” said Percy loudly, as Mary suddenly felt the ground shift under her. Was Venice sinking at last? No, rather she was feeling faint. The last thing she knew was feeling Byron’s arms around her waist and then Percy’s cool hands on her face, calling for her. 

“When was the last time you ate?” asked Byron when Mary came to, curled up in an armchair with a blanket thrown around her. 

“I don’t remember,” Mary said with a yawn. “Yesterday morning? Clara is looking peaky, I haven’t felt much better. Where is Alba?” 

“Her nurse came for her, has fed her and now has put her to bed. Mary, eat this, would you?” Percy offered her a piece of nougat and she ate it without thinking and sighed. He was sitting at her feet, with no thought of the dust on his clothes. But that was just as well, for she had no thought of them either, just now. She ran her fingers through his hair, and he leaned against her hand, like a giant cat. 

“Did I truly faint?” Mary said. “I feel so foolish now.” 

“It isn’t your fault, you came to dine, didn’t you?” Byron said. “But they don’t open the kitchens again until ten, so you’ll have to be satisfied with candies and nuts and things like that until then. Here.” He offered her a box of nuts, from which she took a few and passed it on to Percy. 

“I don’t know what it is about the two of you, you are the strangest couple I have ever met,” Byron said, putting a chair close to Mary and sitting beside her. 

“You must meet such bizarre people every day in your travels,” Mary protested. “How can we be the strangest people you’ve met?” 

“Of course not,” Byron said. “That would be disgraceful flattery. I merely meant that your romance, such as it is, intrigues me enough to see it a little closer -- insert myself in it, if I may be so bold.” 

Mary hid a smile with her hand. “You’re quite lucky, then, Lord Byron. For my husband here practices free love. You may insert yourself, if it pleases him to let you do so.” 

“And what about you, Mary?” 

“I prefer to keep the insertions between him and myself, mostly.” 

Byron nodded and said, very carefully, “There has been no one else who could tempt you?” 

“Mary, my sweet love,” Percy said, standing for a moment. He kissed her. “He means to seduce you, you know.” 

“Percy, my dear fool,” Mary said, “he means to seduce the both of us.” 

“I did not think you two were so easy with endearments,” Byron said, almost to himself. “I wish I could take notes.” 

“You cannot,” Percy said quickly. “Put that thought out of your head entirely and enjoy this for what it is.”

“And you’ve never —“ Byron was grinning. “Not with Mary and another person, have you?”

“He suggested it with Tom Hogg,” said Mary, “I love Tom, but I’ve no desire to see him naked.” 

“But you’ve a desire to see me naked?” Byron asked with a pleased smile.

“Perhaps,” Mary replied. “Yes, though you could have worked harder at it tonight.”

“Naturally,” Percy said at the same time. He looked at Mary, alarmed. “Oh, I suppose, yes. You were quite in a state before.”

“Don’t mind that,” Byron said. “If I had planned it so, I would have made myself beautiful for the Shelleys, but then my approach would have seemed less sincere.”

“Perhaps we should come back tomorrow to see this beautiful version of you and see if you are worth loving.”

“What a cruel mistress you are, Mrs Shelley,” said Byron as he kissed her. It was a softer kiss than what she expected from such a bold man as he was, but then again, it was only an opening gambit. 

“Ah,” Percy said and they both looked at him. 

Mary said, “Percy, do you not like it? I know it’s different, seeing than speaking of it.”

“Truly, I find it thrilling,” Percy said, “because I know you will always love me the most.” 

“It’s true,” Mary assured him, caressing his cheek. 

“Absolutely chilling,” said Byron, “such talk should completely disinterest me, and yet here I still am. Should we go to the bed chamber then, if we are still going?”

“You needn’t be a brat,” Percy said, tweaking one of Byron’s curls. “Do you cry and refuse to participate whenever any attention is ever lifted from you?”

“Yes, of course I do,” said Byron said, surprised that it was even a question. 

“Could we take some wine up as well?” Mary suggested. “I think it would be of use.” 

“It is this streak of practicality in my wife that saved us so many times and in so many places.”

“I must tell you, Shelley, I despise uxorious men, especially if I am about to sleep with them.” 

And with that, they departed for Byron’s bed chamber. 

*

That morning, the Shelleys returned to their lodgings with arms overflowing with toys and presents for the children and sweets for Claire -- all thanks to Lord Byron’s insistent and then rather irritated generosity. 

But only doleful faces and weeping greeted them at their return. Then, the dreadful news: little Clara, only a year old, had been taken by fevers in the night. Mary dropped what she was holding -- some toys for Willmouse and moved like, like a blind woman, towards the door. 

“Mary,” Percy said urgently. He reached out for her. 

“Do not touch me,” Mary said, her hands clawed by her side. “For God’s sake, Shelley. I will not be able to stand it. I must see her.” 

Willmouse, who had observed everything, now with drastically fewer playmates, attempted to play with his toys, with his only father to watch him. 

**Lerici, Bay of Spezia, 1822**

Mary revived suddenly, in a bathtub full of ice. She was dying. Her husband was sitting by her side, writing. The silence grew for a while, his pen scratching at the paper. 

She stirred for a moment and tried to remember what had happened. The baby had come early and she had started bleeding and could not stop. There was no doctor anywhere near their remote house in Lerici. She was almost going to die, and so dark was her mind that she welcomed that change. 

But then Percy had thought of putting her in this ice bath and keeping her there until the bleeding had stopped. Mary took another breath and begged her mind to concentrate on something besides the throbbing pain she was feeling or the rage that clawed at her. 

With a voice that was no more than a whisper, she said, “What are you writing, Percy?” 

A rustle of papers answered her. Then: “Hm. A new poem -- _The Triumph of Life_.” 

“God,” Mary said, sinking back into the ice. “I wish I was dead like Harriet.” 

Percy made a sound as if he had been stabbed at his side. “Why would you say such a thing? Mary.” 

“Like Harriet. Like Fanny. Like Mother. I wish, I wish, _I wish_.” 

Percy grabbed her face. “You’re going mad. Stop it. The child will hear you.” 

Mary pulled away from him. “Your hands always so cold. A dead man’s hands.” 

“Only you’ve complained of it.” Percy pretended to go back to his poem, but he was watching her from the corner of his eye. 

Mary sighed and covered her chest with her hands. “The child, the child -- which child do you mean? Not poor Willmouse, he’s dead. Did you even notice when you were weeping over Keats?” 

“Mary, you are being cruel. You know who I mean.” 

“Ah. Our one living child. Or no! Perhaps you mean the phantom one you saw crawling out of the sea and beckoning you towards the watery depths?” 

“Oh.” Percy said, straightening up. “You heard that, did you?” 

“How could I miss it? You were_ so_ loud when you were describing it to Jane.” 

“I think you are feeling better,” Percy told her, closing his notebook and sealing the inkhorn and putting away his pen. “For seven hours, you did nothing but moan, or beg me incoherently to kill you. If you can needle me about Jane Williams, you are almost healthy again.”

“Jane Williams is a sweet girl, and very beautiful,” Mary said. “I think your poetry to her is some of the best you’ve written lately. Her husband, I’m sure, agrees. How old is she again? Twenty? Twenty-one? Not tired, worn away, and twenty-five, like myself.” 

“You are_ so_ tired, Mary,” Percy told her. “I know you are angry at me, but it is without cause.” 

“Is it really without cause, Percy? When we set out, you promised that we would be equal partners in this venture of love, writing and adventure, and now here I am, bleeding in a bathtub full of ice because I have lost yet another child, and here you are, seeing visions of a ghost child --” 

“And a doppelgänger too.” 

“What?” 

“No, continue on.” 

“What more can be said? If you no longer love me, then say so. I am more than willing to take Percy Florence and return to England. I do not wish to be dragged on behind you as a wife of a great poet, or an old nag that was once loved and now only tolerated. I am tired of holding my tongue, of hiding myself and my feelings -- _my very natural sadness _\-- for fear that you will no longer love me. I do not care anymore, Percy. Leave me, I beg you.” 

“My God, Mary.” 

“Percy, you are an atheist.” 

He laughed. It was a strange, fey laughter, but that was Percy’s laugh. “I do love you. There is no one in the world I love more. You are right that there is something broken between us. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if it’s enough that we love each other.” 

He got up and said, “I will ask Claire to come and attend to you.” 

“No,” Mary replied. “Call for Jane. Let her see her future, if she wants it.” 

*

It was Jane who showed Mary the letter -- rather, it was a note, Percy had left, stating that he, Captain Williams, and Vivien, the boat boy, had gone down to make modifications on the _Ariel_ \-- also dubbed by Byron as the _Don Juan_, and the cause of a long running argument between the two of them. Percy’s boating expedition would mean he would be away for quite a while and at first, Mary was relieved to hear it. The small house in Lerici, rocked as it was by the wind and incoming waves, seemed more bearable now that it had fewer people in it. 

But it was not truly bearable. Claire’s grief over the recent loss of Allegra was palpable, and Percy’s strange behavior in the last few days had cast a heavy pall over the rest of the inmates of the house. Mary who was only starting to feel like herself again, wondered why she could not seem to rest at all, not even when Percy Florence came to her and lay his little head on her breast. He was murmuring something sweet and sad, but she could not attend his babyish voice. 

Mary put a careful hand over his head and wondered where in the world Percy had gone. She did not like the_ Ariel _\-- or the_ Don Juan_, whatever they chose to call it. It did not seem seaworthy to her, especially once they had put the new mast and topsail on it — Mary thought the plans for the boat seemed dangerously unbalanced. It dismayed her how obsessed both Percy and Byron were over racing against each other. Was it the last thrashings of their youth? 

It would be better if they would stay on land and work on the journal that Percy was determined to launch instead -- not, of course, that he had told her anything about that. 

Mary frowned and looked out the window. Outside, the heavy rain lashed against the glass and wind howled. A gale was coming in. She hoped that Percy had been sensible and had taken shelter somewhere. Perhaps he had squirreled away some paper and ink somewhere, and was frantically writing away, uncaring of it all -- the storm outside and the worries of those who cared for him. She wished that she could be like that too. Once, she had been-- hadn’t she? 

No, it would not do... Mary gave Percy Florence back to his nurse and began to pace around the room. Something indeed had gone wrong. She could not rest until she knew what it was. 

*

The Italian authorities would not allow a woman at the quarantined site where Percy’s body was half-buried in the sand and so Mary stayed in the carriage when he burned. It was hours and hours of it and still she did not cry. She had not cried when she heard the news that the boat had gone missing in the storm, or ten days later when the bodies had been found. 

Her hands needed to be occupied and because she could not tear into her own flesh, she began to tear into her handkerchief. Just as she had split it in two, the door of the carriage opened and Lord Byron shoved himself inside, closing the door behind him. 

“Why did he have a volume of Keats on him, and not something of mine?” 

“That cannot be your first concern,” Mary said. “Please remove yourself from this carriage.” 

“Mrs. Shelley, I hired this carriage! It is, for the time being, my property.” He gestured vaguely to the door. “You get out.” 

“Lord Byron, I cannot get out. It is Italian custom that women are not allowed in places such as my husband’s funeral pyre.” 

“It should be over soon enough. Edward Trelawney is in transports over the whole thing -- he will record everything for posterity, you needn’t worry about missing a thing. It seems that while Shelley’s life may have belonged to you and I, but his death belongs to those outside.” 

“You?” Mary said, questioningly. Lord Byron smiled. 

“Do I presume too much?” 

“Yes, you were not even his favorite poet.”

“Wretched woman, you know exactly how to wound me. How do you feel, then, with all this?” 

“It is -- I have no words for it.” Mary folded her hands into her lap. Her dress, the badly dyed black of it hurt her eyes to see. Her eyes felt like they were burning. 

Byron sombered up and sat next to her. He did not touch her, and for that, she was grateful. Even Claire’s tearful embraces had felt unbearable, today. 

“Mary,” Byron said, “they have told me you have not cried a single tear since you heard the news that Shelley was dead.” 

“I cannot,” she said. “I have to be strong for my son. He is the only person I have left in the world.” 

“He will be too young to remember if you wept or not,” he said. “I don’t know how old he is -- I assume, less than five.” 

“He is three. But I am being -- selfish. You are grieved too. Allegra --” 

“We are not here talk of my grief,” Byron said. And here he smiled, a brief and heartbreaking smile. “Say to me what you have been holding on to.” 

“If I do, will you hate me for it?” 

“I cannot. I will not.” 

Mary took a breath and tried to find a measure of peace within herself. She could not and so she plunged on. “Shelley and I quarreled before he left me. I accused him of not loving me and he said that he did, but it was not enough. Am I so heartless and cruel that my husband’s death does not touch me? Did I drive him to it?” 

Byron took her hand and kissed the ring upon it. 

“Mary, you know that is not the truth.” 

She looked away for a moment and it felt as though an ocean swell of sadness finally hit her. She blinked. “Yes. I know. And -- I think I prefer it when you call me Mrs. Shelley. If you do not mind.” 

“I do not mind at all,” he said. 

They sat in silence for a while before Byron snapped his fingers together and said, “Trelawney told me a curious thing -- Shelley’s body has been burning for some time now and it seems that everything is more or less ashes, except his heart. His heart is so pure it will not burn!” 

Mary allowed herself a small smile. “His hands were always so cold. Of course his heart would remain.” 

“I don’t think I understand you,” Byron said. “I endeavor to bring the heart back to you. Trelawney will try to get it for himself or for Hunt.” 

“Thank you,” Mary said. “Whatever happens, his heart will always belong to me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> — In fact, Mary had to get Percy’s heart back herself from Leigh Hunt after a prolonged and rather unseemly struggle. She kept the ashes of it, along with the locks of her dead children’s hair in her writing case, only to be opened after her death in 1851 by her son, Percy Florence Shelley and his wife, Jane. 
> 
> — Was Percy Shelley’s death a suicide, an accident or murder? Was his last few days plagued by dreadful supernatural visions of his own impending demise or excited with preparations for a new politics and literary journal he was planning to launch with Leigh Hunt and Lord Byron? Who knows? 
> 
> And on the _Ariel_ | _Don Juan_ itself, did Shelley and Captain Williams (the beautiful Jane’s husband) have a sudden and catastrophic falling out, right in the middle of the storm? Did the sea take him? (Yes.) Whatever really happened, it was clearly a perfect storm of circumstances, bad decisions (just pick one name for the boat), and perhaps several mental illness crises all at once. And let’s not forget the true victim in all of this -- Charles Vivien -- the 18 year old boat boy, who really didn’t do anything wrong, still died anyway. RIP. 
> 
> — Byron’s official reaction to Shelley having a volume of Keats on him when he died was: “I never met a man who wasn't a beast in comparison to him.” Very good, Byron. 
> 
> Lord Byron himself died in Greece in 1824. He remained a source of sexy fascination and frustration long after his death.
> 
> — Mary Shelley herself enjoyed a successful second act - she returned to England, raised her son with her writing, helped lesbians marry and rejected marriage offers from other writers, including Washington Irving, by saying, “I have already married a genius, and will only marry another.”


End file.
